This Bed for Three
by candyflavordlies
Summary: Gaby is bruised and tired but theirs and home. This tiny room is safe for now and nothing will get past them, these walls they've built. Written for roadhymns in the Man from U.N.C.L.E Summer Solstice Gift Exchange 2018.


**This Bed for Three**

 **Author's Note:** One of two stories written for the Man from U. .L.E Summer Solstice Gift Exchange. You can find my other MA/E rated entry on AO3.

* * *

They're safe now, or as safe as they can be until the extraction team can make it to this location. Their rendezvous point had been compromised and they wear the wounds of the betrayal.

The room is tiny, with only enough space for the bed and a foot or two for the door to swing open. There's a darkened window a little above waist high. It leads to the canal, in the event that things get desperate enough for the thirty foot drop.

Solo sits at the edge of the bed with his gun resting on his lap. He remains perfectly still as Illya shifts against him. They all took some pretty good hits and overall, everything hurts. He glances over his shoulder, and subsequently Illya's too. Solo can't see Gaby over the Russian's hulking frame.

"How is she?"

"Bruised. Here." Illya leans to the left so that Solo can see the purple mark spreading across her lower jaw.

"A punch." Illya nods in agreement. They come to the same conclusion and feel the same sense of relief; a small thing in comparison to the myriad ways in which they are all expecting to die. And, it's not like they left anyone standing, but it would be a shame to have to hunt down any survivors should anything more serious have happened to their little mechanic.

"She should come around soon. I'll take first watch. Get some rest."

Illya bristles at the comment. He does not need watching over and says almost as much. "I am not tired."

It's not exactly a lie but he can feel the American's disagreement through the places where their bodies touch.

"I need you rested in case you need to carry her out of here. Plus, I thought your ribs could use a break. All in one piece?"

"I have had worse." Which is universal code for no, but that's ok. As far as Solo can tell, there aren't any open wounds. That's good enough for now.

"Sleep, Peril."

Illya huffs, pulls Gaby closer and tucks her small frame against him. He tugs his jacket around both of them and wraps his arm around her waist. From this angle, no one would know she's here, and Illya likes the thought of that. He is committed, beyond anything, to seeing her safe. To seeing her whole.

He traces small patterns, old letters, across the back of her hand. It's meant to bring good fortune and they could use some of that tonight.

* * *

Gaby wakes in a confused haze of warmth and pain. Had a horse kicked her? There could be no other explanation for the searing in her jaw or the ringing in her ears. She tries to shake her head but ends up burrowing deeper into some...one?

She blushes all the way down to her toes. It doesn't take more than a second to put all of her thoughts together, to recognize the thick wool jumper or the sonorous breathing she'll always associate with Illya.

Gaby takes another minute to appreciate this comfort and safety. Their lives are complicated and growing more so every day. If it isn't tomorrow, it will be some day soon after that one of them won't be so lucky. There's no happy ending for them, not this far in. But she can be thankful for moments like this one, where her life is her own and her men are safe and they make sure she is too.

She takes these last minutes before poking her head out from the confines of Illya's coat. His arm around her waist tightens for a few brief seconds before he seems to catch himself and rolls away to let her out of the makeshift cocoon.

"Nice nap?" Solo peeks over his shoulder, a sparkle of laughter in his eyes. Gaby rolls her eyes but the blush doesn't subside.

"Are you jealous? Perhaps Illya will make space for you." Their partner grumbles, likely something vulgar in his mother tongue.

"No, no. I'm sure we aren't playing favorites. Right, comrade?"

Illya doesn't bother answering. He pushes up into a sitting position and winces at all of his newly discovered injuries. Something in his side throbs. He shoves the feeling down, locks it away in the place where all his pain goes. "How long until extraction?"

"One hour. Plenty of time to get into trouble." While they chat, Gaby frowns at the gash on Solo's forehead.

"Hmm, is it that bad?" She props herself up on her knees, wedged against Napoleon's back and Illya's thighs. Leaning forward, she touches around it gently to check for debris or evidence of deeper damage. Besides the blood crusted around it, it will likely heal with minimal fuss.

Gravely, she makes eye contact and shakes her head. His forehead creases in worry, though he would never admit it. "It will heal. Your good looks are safe."

Illya coughs suspiciously, as if it isn't a cough at all.

Solo glares. Gaby's sense of humor was generally much funnier when directed at someone else. "Thanks, doc. Now let our brooding friend here make sure they haven't rattled your brain too much."

It's her turn to glare. She doesn't like being ordered around or babied and depending on the mission, that's all her partners do. "I'm fine."

He looks over her head. "This sounds familiar."

Before Gaby can continue to protest, there is a strong, very cold, very gentle hand on her chin and a painfully bright light in her eyes. She jerks her head back, ready to scold him.

"Concussion." He subconsciously rubs his hand on his pants leg. "Sorry." He is always worried about that, what his hands must feel like against her skin. Illya tucks the flashlight inside his coat and readjusts to sit next to her so that Gaby is sitting with her back against the wall, Solo is sitting at the edge of the bed to watch the door and Illya is next to her, watching the window.

The room is dark except for what makes it through from the moon and the floodlights below. Given where they ended up this evening, this may be their only opportunity to rest and recover before the next leg of their journey. It's rare that they have downtime, and this is as close as they're going to get. While her soldiers work to keep them secure and alive, Gaby decides to keep them all sane.

With great flourish, she begins to weave her tale.

"Have I told you both the story of how I ended up running from the KGB in nothing but my undergarments?" She knows, when she sees the tips of Illya's ears go red, that this will absolutely be worth it.

* * *

Solo checks his watch. Midnight. He wedges the receiver into his ear. It sputters to life. He hears the staticky voice dictate their instructions.

With his back to them, he relays the message. "Good news, Peril. Out the window after all. I'll go first. Agent Teller, you're in the middle."

Illya is already at the window and sending the responding light flashes. When he gets the signal, he opens it all of the way and steps back.

They hear the thunk of the grappling hook as it catches the windowsill. Solo checks the rope, gives it a tug to be sure that it will hold. Illya is facing away from them, gun trained on the door in the event that this isn't one of the easy times.

Solo keeps his voice low. "Give me ten seconds and then follow me down." Gaby nods and crouches below the window, listening to her partner rappel down the side of the building. She counts to herself as she tucks her hair into the collar of her top.

"Ten seconds, Illya." He nods slightly and begins backing up towards the window. Gaby grabs the rope and hops over the ledge and then she's free falling and weightless. Her feet hit the side of the building silently. She glances down, sees Solo melting into the shadows at the bottom. Down, down, down she goes until her feet meet the ground. When she glances back up, Illya is already halfway to the bottom.

When he dismounts, they run with nervous, excited energy crackling between them. They are relieved and grateful because they've made it, all in one piece, again and that's happening less and less frequently.

They're on the boat now, and she's smiling like a lunatic. Solo is pretending not to be winded because Illya isn't and they're both watching their backs as the small craft pulls out of the docks.

They're clear, heading to the safe house and a debriefing and this is perfect, the best outcome possible. Her and her handsome, dangerous men are safe and that's all she'll ever ask.


End file.
